Fall from Grace
by IolitePrincess
Summary: Set between series 2 and 3. John Watson, still grieving the death of Sherlock, makes an astonishing discovery while clearing his room. A safe that Sherlock left open for him. He embarks on a journey to find out the real identity of the mysterious Grace and ultimately, closure.
1. Discoveries

One

Discoveries

I don't know why I even considered this. My councillor thought I'd been holding on and I needed to move forward. It's all just bollocks. Anyway, it'd been a considerable time since Sherlock had been gone. The loss of him took a larger toll than I thought, but, I'd started to move forward again.

That's then it happened.

I was the closest thing to family Sherlock had - and Mycroft was too busy to come and collect them - so they let me keep his belongings. There weren't many unusual things, stuff like his computer, his phone (both locked of course) and his coat – the one he'd turn up the collar of because he thought it looked cool. He would say he was surveying his surroundings whilst keeping a barrier between him and others, but I don't believe it. Didn't. I didn't believe it. There were also possibly some weird contraptions he might have kept in his room; a room which I'd been shying away from like it was some sort of taboo.

Eventually DI Lestrade cornered me going past the station. "God John," He said, "You look like… when did you last sleep? I know that you're upset, but this isn't a way to live!" I just stared at him. Blankly. He sighed, but was undeterred. "Well have you found another flatmate?"  
>"I... haven't been in his room yet."<br>"What? You haven't even cleared out his room yet? Right." He resolved, and ducked into the police department. Five minutes later, he banged his fist on the receptionist's desk and came out to me. "You're going to do it. Right now. I can't come with you, I'm needed on this case but as soon as I can I'm coming to check on you," The way he said it made it impossible not to believe him.

When I caught a cab I pondered on the fact Lestrade had a point. This couldn't go on forever. Eventually I'd have to accept that he…that he… that Sherlock wasn't going to come back. The room needed emptying. And I was the one who had to do it. Otherwise, I probably would never be able to let go. It wasn't long enough; I'd wanted more time to think, to mourn. But, when the car dragged to a stop, I paid the driver and got out of its safe encasing into the nipping winds. I let myself in. The journey into the flat and to Sherlock's room was a deliberate and conscious one. I made it steadily, counting my steps as I went. Hovering, I mustered the courage to open the door.

It wasn't as bad as I'd imagined. Sherlock's room was almost... normal. A bed, sheets pressed razor thin. A coffee table with various sizes of circular white cups arranged in a pattern - one small cup surrounded by big cups, medium ones filling the gaps – all at different stages of germ growth. A TV on the wall – so dusty it was obvious Sherlock had never used it in his life. Near the window next to a set of wardrobes was a desk with different coloured liquids in chemical test tubes and flasks. I decided to deal with them last. What caught my eye was something glinting tucked into the top right corner of the room. It was a silver safe. What was astonishing was that the door of the safe was slightly ajar. That wasn't like Sherlock – he was meticulous! He wouldn't have made a mistake as basic as not shutting the door properly he wasn't some amateur... which meant he left it open for me on purpose, I concluded.

Unable to stop myself, I curved up to the safe and pulled it open. It was full up to the brim: parcels, logbooks, photographs, receipts, even a laptop! Any method of evidence could probably be found in the safe if you checked. I pulled out a random set of photographs. Some of them had Sherlock in, but all of them had someone I had never encountered before in them. She was slender, with a cropped shock of very, very dark brown hair and lighter brown eyes. She was pretty – most of the pictures looked as if she only noticed the camera at the last second. Was she a model? What would Sherlock want with a model? I put the photos back and picked another pack. Again, photos of this same woman. Who was the woman in the photographs with Sherlock? Why did he have them of her? Who was she to him for him to keep her photos preserved so...

"Ouch!" I exclaimed. The door had swung into my side and slightly dug into my arm. When wrenching it away I almost missed the glitter of gold among the silver. Gently, I pulled the door back to see there was a nail screwed in it and hanging from it a golden chain. Hanging from that, was a ring. A gold ring. An engraved ring. The inscription was small, with some of it in Latin: _familia non semper abs sanguine, brother. Grace xx_

Grace. Sherlock's sister. Sherlock's secret. One thing was for certain – I was going to get answers, and there was only one person I could think of who had them. Mycroft.


	2. Girl Trouble?

Two

Girl Trouble?

The only way to find Mycroft Holmes was for him to look for you. Mycroft only ever looked for you if you were a national threat. So, I decided as I grabbed my laptop, I'd just have to become one. Taking a deep, deep breath, I summoned the nerve, and began to type in my blog: '..._The Woman. I shouldn't really be writing the details of this case – as I said when I blogged it before, I couldn't because of the Official Secrets Act, but...'_

Now, it was just a matter of sitting and playing the waiting game.

The sleek black car rolled up outside quicker than expected – I'd thought I'd have to wait at least over half an hour before Mycroft noticed. I grabbed some things – my house keys, a picture of Grace, the ring with the engraving in, and my cane – and hurried out the door. Inside the car, Mycroft's usual female glamorous assistant was doing something on her phone – paying absolutely no attention to me. Ah, she was so pretty. A brunette. However, experiences in the past had shown me there was completely no point in trying to speak to her. All I could do was get in the car.

It was a secluded place – as usual. A cottage out in the middle of nowhere. It was empty, save for a voice. Mycroft's voice. "You know, you could have just phoned me," I found the living room where he was sat in. "But I must give you credit. I didn't think you could be so devious John," He said, his face a mask. "I assume you're here on a matter of great importance to have contacted me this way. What seems to be the problem?"  
>I took in a nervous breath. "Why didn't you tell me about your little sister?" I asked hoping my tone sounded casual.<p>

Mycroft frowned, and his eyebrows furrowed. "Sister...?"  
>"Oh, so Grace is just Sherlock's little sister? Your...half sister?"<br>"John what are you talking about? Neither Sherlock nor I have ever had a sister. What has you so convinced that Sherlock could ever manage to live with a girl? It always made Mummy so sad..." Mycroft trailed off leaving me dumbstruck. I supposed it made sense, considering how Sherlock would treat poor Molly, but then why...?

I started cautiously, showing Mycroft first the ring, then the photograph "But Mycroft – look, this clearly says brother – Grace-"

"Hmm." Mycroft took the evidence I brought and examined it. "Grace seems to have believed him to be a big brother... here look;_ 'familia non semper abs sanguine'_ family is not always by blood. This is Grace, I presume?"  
>"I think so. It makes sense." I went into brief overview of the day's events so far.<br>"My. This **is** interesting. I think you should look into this. You spent time with Sherlock – learnt some deductive skills and the like – the way you found the quickest method to contact me. Investigate her John; I look forward to seeing what you find."

Investigate. A simple word that meant a world of things to me. Investigate. Yes, I was going to investigate – the mystery of Grace. I turned to leave and begin my examination of the safe to find a starting point when Mycroft called:

"And next time John? You can just phone me."


	3. Lost in a Book

Three

Lost in a Book

The hard thing was starting – because I had no idea how. I sat looking at the safe – a safe brimming, bulging with information – each piece ready to make use of._ 'Right, let's be logical about this...' _ I thought. _'... Okay John - let's not begin with photos or receipts. There is just too many, and besides, they're only snapshots of what was happening at the time. Let's not try the laptop either, knowing Sherlock, its locked with some unbelievable password too complicated to guess. So that leaves parcels and books...' _ Thinking it through, I decided that I could go over the parcels later because they could be anything at all. So, I grabbed a book and began to leaf through...

At the same time, Lestrade parked up outside the flat. He was itching to see whether that I had taken his advice –and if not, he had an iron resolve to set me straight. Well, to try. In all honesties, Lestrade was sincerely hoping it wouldn't come to it. He rang the doorbell, shifting his weight from one foot to the other nervously. After what seemed like eons to him, Mrs Hudson unlocked the door. "Hi Mrs Hudson, is John in?" She nodded, and shuffled back into her apartment. Lestrade took a breath and started up the stairs.

Up in the flat, my mind was reeling with the explosive discoveries the books had given. Log books. They were log books! How often I remembered pleading with Sherlock to keep a record of customers he saw when I was out and there I was staring at log books. But that was just the icing on the cake! The most important factor had to be-  
>"John! Good, you've started. Let's get on with it then."<br>"Lestrade!" He looked slightly afraid. Softening my tone, I said, "Look at this! Sherlock kept log books!" He sat beside me and had a look. "See here this bit though, the J and G, I think these are all the cases he worked with me, and these others are ones he may have worked with other people," I didn't really want to tell him anything until I was sure he'd be useful.  
>"Hmm... that's not his handwriting though – I know whose it is though," He pressed the bridge of his nose, and then snapped his fingers "Oh! It looks like Grace's."<p>

Five words that opened up a world of questions. I stood in surprise. "You know Grace?" I said.  
>"Of course I did... John, what's going on-?"<br>"Tell me about her."

Lestrade kept calm. It was true, he hadn't expected this to happen at all, but at that point, and it wasn't going so bad. "Grace was a uni student. She worked with Sherlock. She was a funny one. I remember once there was a dead body in a hotel room, but there was nothing on CCTV, so we called Sherlock. That was around the third or fourth time I'd seen Grace. I didn't want to let her in, but Sherlock said 'If you don't want to be pulling me into crime scenes when I'm eighty-four with severe mental diseases the let me train my protégée!'" Lestrade put on an arrogant tone, puffing his chest out as he quoted Sherlock. "Carry on," I urged.

"So she went in. She made a few observations, but he went 'It was the wife.' It was so quick, but then, Sherlock was that quick right? She looked at him and went 'How?' He said 'Crumbs, ring, detective agency down the street and lipstick.' I had no clue what he was on about, but Grace seemed to follow his train of thought, because she said 'He was married. His wife hired someone to see if her husband was cheating. He had dinner with the detective she hired, and they came to the hotel. That's when she called his wife and left. His wife shot him.' This was the bit that was most important though. When Sherlock made a remark of disgust of how the wife let rage overtake her, Grace said 'No, you're wrong.'" My eyes widened. Sherlock was never wrong.

"She goes 'The lipstick.' Sherlock scoffed and said 'Part of the detectives work' but then she goes 'Wrong again.' And I was really shocked. Sherlock was really biting, going 'Go on then, explain.' And she went 'Look at the body. It's so neat – he's been shot, he should be splayed everywhere, but he isn't. Only the killer could've done that and we've already said it's his wife. Its proof she loved him - she couldn't bear the fact he was a cheat. But, she was also sad to lose him, so she neatened his body, and kissed him goodbye. And, to rule out your earlier point about the detective, someone who is going to shoot her husband for cheating wouldn't authorise another woman to kiss him. Of course, you wouldn't understand it – you lack the necessary emotion.' Sherlock looked like she'd slapped him." I stood in awe of Grace. Sherlock had missed it. But she hadn't.

"Obviously Sherlock retaliated, telling her how she was weird, she'd wear designer bags but her shirt was splaying at the seams, wore makeup but then wore a hoodie and trainers, he couldn't make out if she was rich or poor, if she was girly or a tomboy." Lestrade finished his story, looking reminiscent.  
>"Where is she now?" I asked absently.<br>"Gone. After a while, she faded away, stopped turning up to uni or meeting with Sherlock so we went to her place – Sherlock and me – and he went crazy. Don't know why, he was just really frantic, trying to find her. He even went overseas. But then, he came back, and just...stopped." That was really strange. The safe, then was probably all the clues to finding Grace. Why was he so frantic, though? And, more importantly, if this was such a big deal to Sherlock, such a major case for him, why did he just stop?

I turned into the living room and went to Sherlock's desk. I was about to open the top drawer but then reminded myself I was with Lestrade, so opened the second drawer instead, taking out a small black leather object and slipping it in my pocket. "Lestrade!" I called.  
>"What?" He answered.<br>"Meet me here tomorrow at lunch. We're going out."  
>"Where?" I turned and smiled at his blank face.<p>

"Grace's house."


	4. Copycat

Four

Copycat

We met the next day and drove to Grace's. We were silent. To an average person, the scene would've seemed peaceful. But I needed to be so much better than average. Whatever was going on, Sherlock kept it secret until the end of his life, which meant it was huge. I needed to be so much more than average – or I'd get nowhere. I glanced at Lestrade, trying to see him how Sherlock would've seen him. He was driving safely – but then, he was a police officer what did you expect? He looked calm… there! His knuckles gave him away, white as he gripped the steering wheel. He was obviously seething – _'He wasn't like that when he came to the flat this morning… I must've done something.'_ I assumed.

Frankly, I didn't really care. I had so much to think about, Lestrade's feelings didn't seem to even place in my list of priorities. Suddenly, Sherlock's indifference to others made so much sense. I envied Sherlock – how did he manage to do this? So many, so many questions were rattling around in my head! So many facts to consider! So much information I needed to keep fresh at the front of my mind! What was going on? Who was Grace – where did she come from? How did she know Sherlock? Why did she agree to work with him? Why didn't he tell me? Why did she disappear? Why did Sherlock try to find her so badly? Why did he stop? Why, why, why, why, why! When Mycroft advised me to investigate, I didn't realize the scope of the mystery, and then, when I finally grasped the magnitude of my task, it only just got worse.

After a stifling twenty minutes, the car rolled to a stop. "We're here." Lestrade stated. I took a quick glance at the building we'd stopped outside of. "Hertford Court? Isn't this place over a thousand pounds a week in rent?" I asked incredulously. Lestrade and I got out the car and began to walk into the building. "That's just for low season, in high season you could pay one thousand five hundred…two thousand pounds?" He mused to himself as we walked through the door. A man was sat at the reception. We reached there and I prepared myself, readying the black leather pouch I took from the drawer in Sherlock's room. "DI Dimmock this is DI Lestrade we need to ask you a few questions." I could feel Lestrade's gaze boring into my back. Clearly, he wasn't happy about using police officers ID's to get information, but I ignored him – I had to get into Grace's apartment!

The man's gaze shifted suspiciously from me to Lestrade and back. "Hey!" He finally said "Just what are you tryna pull? I know DI Lestrade! Scrawny bugger – had a right attitude on him too! You're not Lestrade!" '_…Sherlock!…'_ I thought, excitedly. _'…Calm down, John. You expected this, now don't get carried away and blow it…'  
><em>"And he had dark brown hair, and wore a scarf and coat?" I said in my best matter-of-fact voice.  
>"Yeah." The man said spitefully. "He did." I took a quick breath and span around to Lestrade. "Greg! We missed him! Sherlock got here without us! Gosh!" Utterly over-exaggerating, I span back round to the receptionist and exclaimed, "The two are always at it – which Lestrade brother can solve more cases!" I then leaned in and spoke at a whisper "I tell you how it started – word down at the nick is they fell out over some bird – haven't been the same since," The receptionist snickered and I internally sighed of relief.<p>

That's when Lestrade decided to take over. "Back to the point…" He pushed in front of me and leaned on the desk, lifting Grace's photograph. "What can you tell me about the woman in this photograph?" "Oh! You mean Gracie – such a sweet girl – yeah, um, she lives in flat five. The other Lestrade who came a few months back asked about her too - is she in some kind of trouble?"  
>"It's too early in the investi-"<br>I interrupted Lestrade quickly, "What my colleague means is that the other brother came to investigate and the case went cold, however we've received new information and are re-gathering fresh evidence, so it's quite early to talk about the new investigation. Is it possible to see Grace in flat five?"  
>"Erm…sure, but I better ask the manager for the key<em>." '...No! The manager will want to see a warrant! We don't have one! ...'<br>_"That's not necessary; just point us in the right direction." I said, slightly panicked.  
>"Okay – use the lift to floor five, the first door you see."<br>"Thanks," I said and sped off towards the lift

I waited we were in the lift before I sighed in relief. "John – John you can't just use police ID's to-" Lestrade's voice was pleading.  
>"Well if I'd let you finish your sentence it wouldn't have worked anyway!" I spat viciously "You do realise that it would have made no sense if you'd said it was the start of the investigation now when Sherlock was here months ago?" Lestrade's cheeks burned, and I realised I'd gone too far.<br>"I'm sorry…Greg…"  
>"Don't," Lestrade smiled at the carpet in the lift. "I see what you're trying to do, John. He wouldn't have apologised."<br>"I'm not Sherlock."_ '…Not yet. I'm not good enough. Not yet…'  
><em>The lift pinged and it couldn't have had better timing. We walked into a long hall leading up to a single door. Grace's apartment. I walked with quick steps, almost jogging. Quietly, I tried the door. "Locked...!" I whispered over to Lestrade, as if speaking up would get us caught and make everything end. Lestrade grinned.  
>"Move." He whispered. He was holding a plastic gift card.<br>"No, Greg! That only works in movies!"  
>"Actually, it does work but with the right kind of lock. This lock is one where the lock should be curved towards me, so if I just slide the card in and push the lock into its socket-" Lestrade quickly snapped the card in the other direction to which he was holding it and the door popped open. "It opens."<br>"Right. And you know this how?"  
>"I'm a cop, it helps to know little tricks like this." Lestrade shrugged as he spoke. "You ready, John?"<br>"No. Let's just go in anyway."


	5. Frenzy

Five

Frenzy

It was nothing, like expected. We walked into a dining room with a kitchen at the right side. _'Did she have the wall between these rooms knocked down?...' _ I wondered. There was an archway where a door should have been on the wall that connected the two rooms, leading to the rest of the house. The walls were painted a warm yellow, and the dining room had a laminate floor. The ceiling had lights fitted into it. In the room were just a small table and a single chair. A single cup was next to the sink. A single fork was left in a single plate next to the single pan, left on the hob in the kitchen. "Three guesses how many people live here," Lestrade muttered. "Right – what's the plan John?"  
>"Huh?" In truth, I'd thought this far, but hadn't really thought past it "Well, the reason I wanted to come here was to try to find out what made Sherlock feel like he needed to find Grace so badly," I thought out loud "So I guess we should have a look around? We should see what we can find."<br>"Right." Being a police officer, I recognised Lestrade would have experience in searching places, so I asked him "What's the best way to do this?"  
>"Let's do this logically," he replied, "Wait here, I'll count the rooms and figure out the best way to search."<p>

I was grateful – it gave me time to look around, and try to sort out my thoughts. _'...the one thing that's odd is that she can afford to live in such an expensive apartment, yet the inside is so bare. There is no TV in here. She doesn't have a dishwasher. She has a washing machine but no tumble dryer. She is using a baby fridge and I don't spot a freezer. Strange...'  
><em>"John," Lestrade called for my attention "There seems to be three other rooms – a bathroom, a study, and a bedroom. The corridor is in a sort of T shape. I suggest you take the dining room, bathroom, and half the bedroom – the entire left side. I'll comb the right side, the kitchen, the study. We meet in the middle after each room and show each other findings."  
>"Well we better hurry – who knows how long we have before someone realises that we aren't actually supposed to be here," Lestrade tried to hide his disdain, but I caught it. I knew he really didn't like breaking the rules, taking advantage of his badge, but I'd begun to get the mindset that Lestrade needed a bit of adventure to save him from his incredibly boring life.<p>

'_...Oh dear...the Sherlock mind thing happened again. I really have to keep on top of that...'_

There wasn't much for me to see in the dining room. There was a chest of drawers exactly opposite the door to the flat, but when I checked them there was nothing inside. "There's nothing here Greg! I'm moving to the bathroom!" I didn't catch his reply; I was in the bathroom sifting through the cupboards. It was the usual, a towel set (flannel, hand and bath), bleach and toilet cleaner, bath and sink plugs, shampoo, conditioner, just the norm.  
>"Shit!" I cursed my inexperience and bad luck. "There is nothing here!" I span, ready to storm out, when my eyes latched onto the reflection in the corner of the mirror.<br>"No way...No way!" I shouted in excitement, whipping round to see the cupboards again.  
>"What is it John? Have you found something?" Lestrade's voice came from opposite – he'd moved onto the study.<br>"There are **two** toothbrushes!"  
>"What?" Lestrade strode over to the bathroom "Oh, yeah there are. And two toothbrushes means-"<br>"Two people." I finished. "Considering they're toothbrushes that implies a close relationship. You think she was seeing someone?"  
>"Not that I know of. I'll keep an eye out in the study," Lestrade smiled, "Hey, well done you." He patted my arm and went out of the room. <em>'... maybe that's why he went crazy. Maybe he was seeing<em> her...' I wondered_ '...No that can't be right. The ring said brother, so it wasn't romantic. Who was she seeing then?...'_ I took a breath, but wasn't about to congratulate myself yet. There was clearly more work to do.

I went across the hallway and saw what Lestrade meant about the corridor being T shaped. At one end was a landline, at the other the door to the bedroom. Lestrade was still checking the study, so I thought I'd get a head start in there. It was similarly furnished to the rest of the house. Bare. The wardrobes were empty, as was the bedside table. I sank onto the bed, confused. _'...There is still a pan on the hob so she probably left in a hurry. So why are all the clothes gone? ...'_ It was then that I noticed it - the drag marks on the carpet. Had the wardrobe been moved...?  
>"John! John!" Lestrade bounded into the bedroom "You need to hear this, come on!" He took my arm and practically dragged me out of the room up to the landline. "Greg what's-" he interrupted me by pressing the button to play the answer machine messages. <em>You have 8 new messages. First message from 020...<br>_"Greg talk to me-"  
>"<em>Hi Grace this is the University of Lon..."<br>_"It's the third message shush," Greg murmured. He skipped to the right message.

"_He's found out. I don't know how, but he has and I have to pack my stuff."_ It was a woman's voice, which I assumed to be Grace's... it was a higher pitch than I thought it'd be. There was obvious distress in her tone._ "I don't have time he's not gone far - you pissed him off by getting here, all hell's breaking loose. I don't know where he's taking me just that we're going by ferry; I'll leave breadcrumbs if possible... Sherlock I-"  
><em>

She was interrupted by keys twisting in the lock.

"_He's back!"_ She said, after which there was a range of scuffling noises.  
>"<em>Honey...? I'm home,"<em>

All of a sudden, it all made sense. Sherlock's mad search for Grace was due to this message, the fright in Grace's manner, and the soft voice calling out that was unmistakably Jim Moriarty.


End file.
